


A Little Braver

by hanwritessolo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: With strange dreams haunting him every night, Gladio finds himself chasing a ghost of a childhood memory as he comes into terms with his own personal feelings.





	A Little Braver

**Author's Note:**

> A little practice on first person present tense to carve and translate my own personal feelings of grief and loss into something angsty and exercise whatever’s left of my writing chops. Written in Gladio’s POV because I’m so fucking biased.

My eyes snap open, and the first thing I see is the faintly blinking digital clock that sits on top of what seems to be a bedside table — two a.m., it says. I sit up, still a bit disoriented, my vision readjusting with the darkness and following the soft amber glow that radiates from across the room. I try to make out the silhouette of shapes around me. A table, couch, another bed, and… Iris?

Ah, shit.

It takes a good minute for me to recalibrate with the fact that for the first time after these grueling couple of weeks, I’m actually in a hotel room. Never thought that not being cramped up inside a tent along with the others can seem so jarring after a night of temporary comfort.

Except tonight is still no different from the nights spent at camp or at some moldy motel.

The same dream still plagues me restless, the image of my dad remain seared into my head.

I can’t really call them nightmares; they aren’t exactly macabre or ghoulish to begin with. Ever since we received the news of the tragedy that befell Insomnia, these dreams have been recurring like a broken record every damn night. It’s always the same: me and my old man standing face to face, but just when I’m about to say something, the space between us grows wider, and I doggedly run after him until I fall and spiral helplessly into an abyss — and then I wake up at a terribly ungodly hour, all drenched in sweat, unable to go back to sleep.

At the adjacent bed, I turn to see Iris sleeping soundly; I watch her chest rising and falling with her every breath. Spending time with the guys recounting what it was like back in the Crown City must have been emotionally exhausting for her. Iris has been a vicious trooper since we were kids; always valiant in her efforts in putting on a brave face. She may be good enough to convince the ones around her, but as her brother, I know better when she’s merely trying to keep herself from falling apart.

Because the moment the guys left and we were finally alone in the room, she wasted no time to throw her arms around me and to bury her face in my chest.

“Daddy’s gone,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Her tears arrived in agonizing fits, out of her control; she cried and cried until her eyes were swollen and rimmed red. I hugged her tight, hoping my own warmth could at least bring her comfort, and waited until her cracking sobs died down.

In that moment, I wanted to hate myself and this duty I signed up for. I wanted to fuck up this fate the Astrals designed and plunged us into. The unfairness of it. I should have seen my sister to safety. I should have been in the city, and I should have fought by my father’s side. But we’re Amicitias, the men in our family have sworn all our lives to protect the King, the royal family.

And if we’ve selflessly offered ourselves to protect them, who’s left to protect _us_?

Long have I abandoned that nagging question. I know my old man’s going to chastise me profusely for entertaining just the thought of it. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already embraced the depth and breadth of my duty, the responsibility that was tempered and forged and steeled in every fiber of my being.

And yet, between what I firmly believe and what I should feel, there’s an aching gap that I can’t seem to cross…

Am I really strong enough for this?

Itching to disembark this worn out train of thought, I haul myself out of bed, careful in each step so as not to stir Iris awake, and out towards the balcony. Even at this hour, Lestallum is brimming with life and scrappy charm — grilled skewers and smoke wafting through the air, the bustling streets steadily humming with music and chatter. Just looking at all these city lights makes me miss the Crown City, a thought that sends a stabbing pain in the pits of my stomach.

My mind drifts back to simpler days. When I was a kid, I remember dad taking me out here in Lestallum. It was a weekend, and he said he’d take me to his favorite place because there’s an important lesson he needed to teach me. I asked what it was, but he assured that I would find out by the end of the trip. It was just him, me, and the old Jeep he used to drive. I got so giddy that I couldn't contain my excitement the entire car ride. When we reached Lestallum, our first stop was this hole in the wall bookstore perched just in the outskirts of the city, where we spent the whole day talking about his favorite books, from tender poetry to lost folklore of Eos. That was the time I got so enamored with his contagious love for reading that I asked him to recommend me a book series I should read when we get back home, and in a heartbeat, he grabbed five similarly decorated books—a saga that told the tale of brave lords and ruthless dragons—and bought it all for me.

The following day, after spending a night in the Leville, we headed out for a hike. When we reached a haven, he took off his backpack and began unloading these camping equipment I never knew we owned. I must have looked surprised, because he started laughing. “Yes, we’re sleeping here tonight,” he simply confirmed, as if to answer the obvious question written all over my face. That was the time he taught me how to pitch my first tent.

The morning after and on our last day, he taught me how to forage for food and to scavenge for items that can be crafted into makeshift weapons. Before going back home, I jokingly asked him if showing me the great outdoors was the important lesson he had referred to.

He smiled at my naive eight year old self, and all he said was: “Son, I want to teach you how to _live_.”

I can never forget that weekend. Out of all the things I learned from him, dad happens… happened, _happened_ , gods I can’t bring myself to even think about him in the fucking past tense.

Just like an open wound hiding in plain sight, the stinging hurt of loss begins to swell, throbbing and demanding for my attention. All this time, I have been occupied in supporting Noct, Iggy, and Prompto the best I could that in the absence of their company, I now unravel a screaming emptiness, an emotional void that I was too afraid to confront.

An overwhelming, crushing desire to cry washes over me, and I take a deep breath, my fists clench around the rails, hoping for this horrible feeling to pass—

“Gladdy?”

I spin around to see Iris standing by the balcony door, the city lights illuminating her face. Without another word, she moves toward me, lightly and almost childlike, and envelops me around her arms.

“Iris, I—”

“It’s going to be fine,” she whimpers, “we’re going to be fine, Gladdy.”

Something in her words disintegrates my defenses that I curl lower and rest my head in her shoulders, wrapping her in my arms, my tears now crashing like raging torrents.

“Dad’s gone,” brittle as glass, my voice finally breaks.

I guess, for once, I can let myself be swallowed in mourning.

“Dad’s really gone,” I repeat, breath hitching in between sobs. Tonight, I release the last tempest of my bottled up grief within me, and allow myself to weep it all away.


End file.
